Nobody died. A drowning here and there,

A strangling, a burn event, and into a creek Isaac had

Slid— but no death. In his dream my daddy

Professed love to my mother. There's a picture-proof

Hanging there somewhere. He had led her

Down a long aisle: she, made up. There was

No altar, no priest, no incense, no choir, no bridal train,

And no little boy bringing plastic flowers. Awkward 

As dreams are. I grew up watching them fight.

I had fright at first, but I knew nobody dies from love.

There's a postcard of Isaac drowning, in a column

Of the family album. He looks at it often, running

His fingers over it. He says there's some revelation

Only he sees. After he hanged in June and the 

Neighbours saved him, he said this life he had 

Lived it before. His face is cold and black. I do

Not leave his hands. In the street the shops darken

To his hue. He invisibles. In the street I do not leave 

The evidence he is. I hold it dearly. I am conscious of

All who breathe through my emptinesses, the spaces

I occupy. In the amphitheatre I am like a child

Bringing plastic flowers to the altar. The audience

See me and raise their palms and clap. Crows circle 

The spire— Chests white, soft, like bone.